She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. Almost light-heartedly. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. There was a deep groan, and the sound of a fall within. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger.
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